


A Knight of Ferelden

by The Summer Sword (Erranruin)



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Book: Dragon Age - The Stolen Throne, F/F, Ferelden, Orlais is an ass, The Ferelden Civil War, The Orlesian Occupation, orlesians are assholes, watch me write a love letter to my favourite dragon age character that no one remembers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-01
Updated: 2017-04-01
Packaged: 2018-10-13 17:02:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10518039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Erranruin/pseuds/The%20Summer%20Sword
Summary: Snippets of writing from various points in Cauthrien's life. Mostly surrounding the parts of her we don't see, but veering towards my image of her and perhaps moving into an AU where she takes the mantle of Commander of the Inquisition's forces from Cullen. We'll see!





	1. Small Rebellions

The heavy sounds of clubs cracking against skin and her friend’s cry stuttered Cauthrien’s frantic feet. She turned back, she couldn’t help it. Her bleeding and frightened heart hammered against her chest as her eyes found the monsters in painted masks, her run slowed to a jog as her conscience screamed to turn back and help. She had dropped their stolen fish yards back already, forgotten now that their only focus was escape. The raggedy little girl, Kelsie, twisted and writhed in the Chevalier’s solid grip but each strike of wood across her back brought her closer to surrender.

And Surrender meant death. That’s what Da’ always said.

But there was nothing Cauthrien could do, she knew it by now. The monsters were strong and cruel and they were going to drag Kelsie away to face some heartless fate and Cauthrien was utterly _powerless._

One day Cauthrien would be met with this situation again. She would measure the moment with a cold and a calm expression before turning back and slamming her massive, fully grown bulk into their attackers. One day she would have the strength to save her friends.

But what can a malnourished child of only seven winters do? She can run, and hope some of the attackers follow her. Kelsie was nimble, wriggly, maybe she could escape just one or two? And Cauthrien clung to that hope as she turned away, hurling herself into a wild run down Crestwood’s muddy streets. She pelted into the Market place, fleeing into the bustle of grumbling merchants forced to sell their wares in the rain and hoping to be lost in the crowd.

No such luck. Even if she was glad to see two of Kelsie’s three attackers chasing her into the Market, their long legs were gaining on her fast and they’d definitely seen her mad dash around the townsfolk. One of the Soldiers roared an accented command, “STOP THAT GIRL”, obviously thinking that the people around would bar her way for them.

Hah, the Monsters were stupid.

Suddenly folk were blocking the way, tangling with the Orlesian soldiers, bunching about Cauthrien to obscure her from view, pointing in opposite directions and pretending to spot her escape. She felt a small tap on her shoulder and glanced up to see an old man with one eye and a mischievous smile gesture behind a fish stall. She didn’t wait to thank him, scrambling and slipping over mud to eventually roll behind the rickety, stinking driftwood.

Seconds passed, her heart punching holes in her ribcage and her fingers shaking as they gripped the salt-sticky edges of the wood, before she notices the bent old woman behind her fish stand. Her expression remained neutral, a thousand rolls and wrinkles quivering slightly to repress a smile and her eyes quickly flicking back to her stock so as not to give Cauthrien away.

She pretended to count Carp as Cauthrien tried not to breathe and listened to the heavy metal boots squelch closer… and closer. One particularly loud plod forced a tiny squeak from her throat and her eyes met the old fisherwoman’s briefly in terror as the plods went quiet. Oh Maker, they’d heard her, she was going to be caught, there was nowhere else to run, nowhere to hide, this was the end of it, they were going to catch her, torture her, they-

The Old woman’s twinkling eye caught Cauthrien’s attention. She blinked and watched her old and knarled hand reach down to grip her skirts and slowly… lift. It was just an inch, but it was enough for Cauthrien to understand. As silent and manic as a squirrel up a tree, the girl dove underneath the fisherwoman’s dress, wriggling through the many layers of petticoats until she could curl up in the centre and sit on the Crone’s feet.

All the thick fabric meant sounds were dulled, Cauthrien could only hear distant footsteps, muffled bustle and indiscernible conversations. It was suddenly very peaceful, and warm, not just under the frock but in her heart too. She was being saved. People _cared._ All the stress and panic of the moment bled away into silent tears as she sat in the mud and waited for success... or capture.

She was in her hiding spot for what felt like hours, before the woolen walls around her lifted and she had to squint against the sudden daylight. She stayed still for a moment, tense again, anxious again, heartbeat jolting back into fight or flight. But no hateful hands came to grab her, just a tiny familiar one. Fingers that were bloody with scratches reached beneath the folds and waited for Cauthrien to take them, which she did. She let herself be lead back out into the Market and she let herself be pulled to her feet, coming face to face with **Kelsie.**

Not captured, not dead, grinning with a missing tooth _Kelsie_. She had a black eye and there was an ugly welt creeping over her shoulder and up her neck, but that was far from the worst thing she or Cauthrien had ever faced. Today was a success, it was a good day. The girls sobbed as they crashed together, thin and wirey arms clinging to each other like lifelines as tears of relief made tracks down the grime on their cheeks. Cauthrien wailed a stuttering mantra of _‘I'msorryI'msorryI'msorryI'msorry’_ into Kelsie’s shoulder and the friends reconciled under the kindly watch of the one eyed Man and his Fisherwoman Wife.

This is what 'rebellion’ meant when Cauthrien was little and alone in a world of Monsters.


	2. A Nightmare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An old Knight collects nightmares like girls collect daisies, but the worst wounds are the oldest.

Rain. It thudded erratically into the mud that her fingers scrambled through and drove her mad as it pummelled her skin. 

A metal boot against her back, pushing her further into the ground, making her cough and cry out when she felt her ribs bow. She could barely _breathe_  and when she did dirt filled her mouth. 

Feeble child limbs fought and flailed uselessly through brush and tree and Lalaith _screamed_  for Cauthrien as she tried to limp to safety, knowing she would never make it. “ _RIIEE- RIEN HELP ME!”_ She sobbed the words in a choked scream, grimacing in pain with each step.

Orlesian Dogs howled in the pursuit.

Orlesian Men laughed and taunted in their foul voices.

Cauthrien stretched out desperate fingers for the little girl.

Her little sister’s eyes were wide and wild with fear when the pack fell upon her-

* * *

 

Cauthrien started awake with a gasp, panicked and distraught in knotted bedsheets which she tore in her battle to be free of them. 

She fell out of bed in her grunting distress, cracking her shoulder and desperately struggling to her feet, backing into the cold stone wall behind her. 

There was a moment of stillness.

The Knight’s heaving breath misted into the cool night air, moonlight still shafting through the open window. The same window that let the sound of rain, thudding erratically into the mud, come in from outside.

The moment dragged on until Cauthrien released a shuddering, _surrendering_  sigh and slid slowly to the floor. Her knees curled in on her, one elbow resting on them as her forehead pressing into the scarred skin of her arm. 

Maker, it had been a long time since she had dreamt of that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah I gave Cauthrien a pretty fucked up Childhood to add to her manner and motivations from the game. Poor families of the dark ages had as many children as possible, so I made Cauthrien one of eight children. She only had three siblings left alive by the end of the Occupation, disease, starvation or Chevaliers took the rest. But the worst one was her wide eyed little sister who liked to sneak out and try poaching herself. Orlesians don't treat thieving peasants very well.


	3. First Kill

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first time Cauthrien killed a man, but certainly not the last.

The hand that gripped her ankle was ruthlessly strong, so crushing that Cauthrien could feel the young bones grind together and pop sickenly in her feet. There was a single still moment of utter hopelessness. She felt the knowledge of her impending death wash over her with only the smallest surge of rebellion. The smallest voice…

**No**. _No no no_ , I don’t **want** to, _I’m not ready. Please._

##  _Please._

She gave a gutteral scream as she was dragged from the tree, her hands dropping her bow and wildly reaching and grasping at twigs and branches that either snapped or slipped from her grasp. Her palms were bloodied and scratched when she made one last attempt to hold herself in the canopy but a single, hard yank almost dislocated her arm and she was forced to let herself fall to their Orlesian Lord’s mercy.

She was crying as the brutish man held her upside down like a rabbit just yanked from a snare, he laughed with the same tone of victory too. What a fine catch, he seemed to sneer, as Cauthrien wailed desperate cries of pain and shock.

There was a moment, hanging there, shivering as he pulled her close, that Cauthrien pondered just letting go. She was already so _tired_.

But then he spoke.

And she _recognised_ him.

The words were foreign and sickly and repulsive to her, striking a string of panic and fury and desperation in her heart from a memory still fresh that twisted her chest so tight she screamed. He seemed surprised, Cauthrien baring her teeth in a feral snarl as she suddenly broke into a squirming mass that had her lashing and clawing and biting at whatever she could reach. She dug her fingers into his throat and screwed a shocked grunt from him, forcing him to fight back against her thrashings.

She fought so furiously that he almost released her, stumbling back into a tree and pushing and lashing out to keep her at a distance. His gnarled fist shattered something in her nose and there was a stomach turning crunch that resounded through her head. He even cast her against the trunk of a tree, cracking her skull upon the bark and reaching for his sword but being foiled when she recovered in a flash and yanked her foot from his grasp. She lunged at him messily, but he caught her tiny wrist and shattered the bones with a vicious twist in a blinding, agonising second.

She screamed, she sobbed, she cried out like a wounded animal but it was survival she was fighting for and pain seemed to drift into a separate space in her thoughts. Registered, but not quite real in that moment of teeth and nails.

Suddenly, she had scrambled around to his back, her legs wrapped tightly about his chest, her injured arm curled chokingly around his thick neck as he staggered and roared indignant protest. He’d never expected such trouble. Cauthrien was bloodied and broken but blood and scratches marred his skin too, red clotting his moustache and hair torn from his scalp.

Choke him, bring him down, she needed to stop his heart but he was too strong for her tiny arms, weak from battle. She had never _done_  this before. He drove her back into another tree, crushing her against it, trying to pull at her legs to release as she gave a silent scream of panic to have the breath knocked out of her. Her ribs were bending, her spine popped dangerously and she squeaked and gasped and flailed about for something _anything_  to save her when her fingers caught in the mess of spidersilk spilling from her breeches pocket. 

It was a thoughtless action, to throw the tangle across his throat, grasp one end in her good hand and grip the other in her teeth. The first tug was strong out of desperation, the razor-thin cord stretching taut and strangling a stuttered choke of surprise from him. The second was strong out of determination, his hands releasing her legs to scrape at his bindings but the bowstring was too thin for purchase on his thick fingers. He tried to grab at her but that forced her to veer violently away, sawing the string into his skin and slicing deep. 

His breathing became hoarse, ragged and laboured as blood spilled freely over her hand and his windpipe closed shut, the Orlesian still staggering forward and struggling to throw her off. But Cauthrien had her purchase now and she knew what worked. She yanked and sawed, acrid iron tastes running down the strings and into her teeth that made her sob and cough and want to gag. Nevertheless, she held on until, after what felt like a lifetime, his struggles slowed and he fell to the ground. 

First he went down to his knees, his body slumping and wavering as life and warmth fled his body. But Cauthrien still held the string tight.

She only let go when he collapsed face first into the mud, panting as she dragged her body off his back with shakey movements, her eyes widening as she suddenly properly saw what she had done. With a grunted squeak, she struggled to back away from the corpse with kicks of her boots.

She was shivering, cold and sick to her stomach. She would have thrown up if her belly had anything in it and as the adrenaline of the moment ebbed away the aches and agonies of her body made themselves known. There was no true sense of victory to this. She was alive, yes. But how much longer? Was it really worth it, was it enough time to be worth this? This pain. This misery. Little voices in her head.

_I don’t want to care anymore._

Cauthrien curled her knees up to her chest, her back to a tree, her broken wrist nursed against her stomach, the Orlesian’s body just in front of her, a dread reminder. Rain filtered down through the leafy trees and made a mire of the dirt around her. But she didn’t care as she held herself through the shudders as though she might shatter apart. In the rain and the storming winds she wept and wailed for the deep, gaping pit of hopelessness and fear filling her chest.


	4. A Lesser Known Regency

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anyone else remember that one time Loghain took over as Regent of Ferelden because Maric needed to run off and try to die in the Deep Roads? And everything was fine and he gave up the position as soon as he SAVED Maric from some evil Orlesian mage or something? Cauthrien does.

"...  _Me_ , my Lord?"

Cauthrien stood straight and as stiff as she could manage before Loghain’s desk. But hands that would normally have been clasped behind her back had slipped to her sides, an expression that should have been blank was surprised, open. She was but eighteen, only a year into her personal Service under the Teyrn of Gwaren after finally rising above the rank of 'recruit'. Untried, untested and, apparently, a bit of a handful. Had he truly meant what he said?

Mac’Tir, for his part, managed to look sardonically amused whilst still maintaining an air of weight, sadness. This was no pleasant day for him, or anyone.

“Can you think of anyone better? I’ve precious enough Officers, I cannot waste them on simply _tending_  to me. But I can’t give the duty to just any Soldier, there will be plenty of secrets and machinations to contend with.”

Cauthrien’s mouth opened, perhaps to protest because she snapped it shut very soon afterwards, her mind whirring visibly until Loghain **had** to address it with a grumbling tone.

“You _obviously_  have some issue, speak.”

And with a command, she was set free. 

“I.. understand the problem, My Lord. But I do not see why I would be better suited to either secrets _or_  machinations than any other of my comrades-in-arms.”

Another sigh on Loghain’s lips, his arms coming to rest on the desk as he leaned forward, piercing-blue eyes locking with Cauthrien’s dark chestnut ones. His fingers interlaced as he considered how to phrase his answer, before he eventually spoke.

“Cauthrien if I made you my second as Regent of Ferelden, would you fail in those duties?”

His tone snapped her back straight, her expression of confusion disappearing for one of utter surety, solidarity. Hands clasped quickly behind her back as she lifted her chin and enunciated with the confidence of mountains.

“No Ser, _never_.”

Loghain gave a smirk, letting a moments silence reach his young Soldier and giving her the time to hear her _own_ words. It happened slowly, she frowned very slightly, her eyes travelled off his features and to the side before her lips finally pressed together in rye and rueful realisation. 

It was very satisfying to watch.

“And it is because I _trust_  that statement, and your unwavering loyalty, that I want you to accept the position.” Loghain announced, with some sense of victory.

Cauthrien was silent for a moment, her gaze calculating, cogs whirring like only pups minds could. The Teyrn was _surprised_  to see her eventually return his smirk with one of her own. A small one, a _testing_ one. This was not their first private discussion, but it held a little more familiarity to it than usual.

“That was underhanded of you Ser.” She muttered, almost under her breath, but by her gaze it was easy to see her growing confidence. She was happy, she was _excited_. And Loghain was assured in his decision.

He laughed, genuinely, for the first time in weeks he imagined. Despite Maric’s failing state or Rowan’s loss or the ordeal that stretched out before him, stealing the Hero of Riverdane away from his wife and young child. Because Cauthrien was as blunt as a farmer’s girl, yet trustworthy and dependable as a rock and when he looked at her he felt at **home**. 

“Of _course_ it was! How **else** did you think I won the war?”


	5. The Civil War Begins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is always a first blow in any War, but the one who lands it is always in question. And there are always two sides to any War, but the right one is even more questionable. Always remember, if you were on the other side, you might think they were right too.

Rain streaked from across the sea and clattered against a hundred shields, sandy mud clung to metal boots as the clouds cast shadows over the two gathered forces. Cauthrien was at the head of hers, astride her Charger and thinking that the weather was making this a lot more dramatic than it needed to be. Then again, Bann Torunn Bronach hadn't needed to bring _three Battalions_ of Infantry with him just for a discussion of truce. Her own fifty Soldiers might have seemed paltry in comparison, but none of them showed any concern. They all knew very well what would happen if these talks went sour.

Loghain spurred his horse forward across the valley and Cauthrien followed, just behind, trotting to meet their wayward Bann in the centre of the field. She hoped it would go well, hoped that this mess of disobidience would end here with only a few Lords in a Dungeon and only a few riots quelled. But what she hoped, and what the expected, never matched these days.

* * *

 

Bann Bronach was obviously trying to look impressive in Armour that no longer fitted him and fur that nearly swallowed his old and sallow face. Still, he was not to be underestimated. He had been an impressive warrior during the brief period he had fought for the Rebellion, AFTER his sister, the Grand Cleric Bronach, had finally declared Meghren a tyrant. But that had taken a very long time and Cauthrien could see the tension on Loghain's face now, remembering that broken trust and disloyal action.

"Still wearing that Orlesian Monstrosity,  _Your Grace?_ " Bronach growled, gesturing to the Teyrn's Chevalier Plate Armour. "Your Tyrant fantasies are finally coming true, of course you'd dress the part as well.."

"You would know all about Tyrants wouldn't you Bronach? After bedding one for half the Occupation!" Loghain snarled back.

Of course, it always went as she expected.

But as far as diplomatic discussions in Ferelden went, hurling abuse was an accepted part. Perhaps it would still turn around for the better. Loghain eventually tried to do just that.

"Be reasonable Torunn! You think the Darkspawn will sit and wait for us to settle this before they come to pillage our homes and destroy our fields? Securing the safety of our people is all I wish to do, but you fight against ME. _Why?_ "

"I'll be dead before I lend even one Soldier to aid the Man whom murdered our King. We all know what you're up to Loghain, you've had a taste of power but you Common rats always want more, blood or loyalty or friendship be damned!"

Loghain nearly spluttered, disbelief building as fast as fury. "You dare to question _**my**_ loyalty?! How many years did you sit under the banner of a man who stuck Queen Moira's head on a pike and hung it over Denerim's walls?!"

And so it went on.

In the end Bronach used up the last of Loghain's very short temper in the surest way possible.  

"And as for Our Queen, Bann Teagan was right! It looks like 'loyaless common whore' runs in the family! But then blood always tells in-"

Cauthrien forsaw the snap, tension in her shoulders building as her eyes focused on Loghain's frame, the grit to his teeth, the fury in his eyes. She knew where this was going, so she acted first. She was his SHIELD, after all. 

Whilst his fingers were still reaching for his sword, Summer slid from it's sheathe and Cauthrien lurched her Charger forward, swinging the hilt down and up and-

The Bann's throat caught against the blade's edge.

He stilled.

His army tensed.

Theirs braced.

The horses tossed their heads and wickered in alarm.

A suspenseful silence fell as all remembered Cauthrien's reputation, her manner, her legacy. What she was _willing_ to do.

She could see Bronach's eyes flicking about him, his mind racing to recognise his position. "How dare yo-"

" **No.** How. Dare. YOU." She bit out the words with icy, heartless surety, leaving no one in doubt of her disgust, "I have killed men for far less than insulting Her Majesty, Our Queen. What makes you think you are allowed such insolence now, _My Lord?_ "

He sneered. And she knew this was it, the tipping point, they were being forced down this path and there was no turning back. She spared a millisecond of a glance back towards Loghain, assessed the cool acceptance in his expression, the thin line of his lips. He didn't need to speak, she knew what to do.

"She is no Queen of mine." He spat, all smug confidence. He thought she wouldn't dare, he thought her full of empty threats. He didn't know her well.

In a snap of her wrist and a flash of her sword, Bann Bronach's last choked cry was cut short. His eyes bulged as the blade hacked through his neck and seperated his head from his body with one jerked slash. As the whole gathering watched his body fall, Cauthrien's hand rose, Maric's Shield raised bows, Loghain drew his Sword, waiting for-

"CHARGE!" Bronach's forces, eyes wild with fury, rushed down upon them like a rock fall. Loyal men, one and all. Arrows fired, Mabari loosed, spears were thrown and there was a horrendous CRUNCH as the two forces slammed together.

* * *

 

Cauthrien rolled her shoulder as she dragged herself out of the bloody aftermath. Some dead men still groaned as the last of life left them, healers dodged around her to find those they could save and the haler Soldiers hauled bodies out to be burned. The mud, once brown, now tracked blood red out of the Valley's dip as Cauthrien strode over to her Teyrn whom sat on a tree stump and stared across the battlefield. Blood seeped through the gaps in his pauldrons and his black hair matted against his forehead. It was like he'd aged a whole ten years more after that one battle.

"We lost ten, but Bronach's Soldiers routed or died. Two possible prisoners, if they survive the arrows." Loghain nods silently through her report, listening but... distant... far too distant.

He wasn't a Regent or a Teyrn or even her Commander at that moment. He was lost, just as lost as she was. No need to stand on ceremony, she realised, no need to pretend indifference. They weren’t fooling anyone. 

Her straight back dropped with a sigh and she relaxed her posture to slump down beside him, grunting as her shoulder complained. Damn, she was getting as old as he was. She _felt_ so fucking **old**.

"... So, it's war then." She said, eventually, stiff professionalism retreating into low, accepting familiarity. He nodded again, a sense of defeat plain on his face, even when today had been a victory. 

"Yes. **CIVIL** war." He paused to heave an almost tremulous breath, "I... never imagined..."

She knew how he felt.

So they sat there, looking across the Country they loved so much and said their apologies for what they were about to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bioware never gives us enough detail on the Civil War, there's a few mentions but as far as codex entries go it's painfully lacking. So I'm giving a bit of flesh to the conflict and seeing where it takes me, whilst paying some attention to the relationship between a Teyrn and his Second.


End file.
